


awake my soul

by salts



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, F/M, Minor Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salts/pseuds/salts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're supposed to be as different as night and day, Heaven and Hell, but when they come together they realize -- well, perhaps they aren't so different after all.</p><p>(Or, Chrome's a demon, Hibari's an angel, and Mukuro isn't entirely sure what to make of that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I decided to start on a whim. The KHR fandom may be dead, but my love for Chrome Dokuro is not.

There's blood on his wings and bone underfoot as the stench of death fills the air; divine metal shudders as it tears flesh, seperating heads from necks, shrieks of pain and snarls of hatred cut short by a swing of his blade. Fire courses through his veins, burning through his body in a ceaseless flow of action, reaction, fight, _kill_.

Feral hordes gather at the gate between Heaven and Hell, a cacophony of screeching and battle, and he stands in the midst of it, fulfilling the instructions of his creation. His companions war beside him, warrior-angels all tasked with a single instruction:

Destroy the demons.

They lead the opponents to rout, scattering the demons with single-minded ferocity. He takes to the air with a flap of his massive wings, propelling his body upward; the rest of His forces do the same, dispersing in every direction to finish what they started.

He hunts down a group of demons that have banded together, steel-colored eyes narrowing in disgust. _Crowding_. Only the weakest of demons gather together like that; the repulsive creatures hold no loyalty to each other, beholden only to their own survival and greed. He drops out of the air like a bird of prey, neatly cleaving one in half before the others jump back and hiss in recognition.

Of the Powers, there is none more hated by the inhabitants of Hell than _him_.

They attack him, claws and talons struggling in vain to penetrate his defense and tear his wings from his body, and he cuts them down with impunity. One spits venom from between its fangs, landing on his breastplate and sizzling as it corrodes the metal beneath; Hibari bisects the demon with a snarl.

The lifeless bodies lay at his feet, drowned in their own viscous, dark blood, and the angel grabs rips a scrap of cloth from one of them to wipe his blade before slides it back into its sheath with a _click_.

He's about to take flight once more when he hears something shift a few yards away, followed by a quickly-muted gasp.

Metal slides against metal as he draws his weapon, approaching a cluster of rocks and barren, twisted trees. "Who's there." His voice is commanding, unforgiving. "Show yourself." Nothing moves, so he adds -- with no small amount of vitriol and perhaps a hint of bloodlust that's unbecoming of a divine being -- " _Now_."

A she-demon steps out from behind a gnarled tree, clutching a crudely-woven basket to her chest. There are two small, nubby horns peeking out from below her hairline and a black tail that twitches fearfully, allowing him no doubt that _she_ is a native of Hell as well. "Hmph." This one was brave, at least -- or foolish -- for showing herself so openly.

It doesn't matter much either way.

Then she looks up at him, and he's given pause by the ragged bandage over a hollowed socket, her single eye wide and violet. Something almost like _pity_ forms in his chest, pity for the crippled, trembling creature in front of him. (A part of him wonders how she's still alive, a demon like her that smells of nothing but _prey_.) A small shudder crawls down his spine when she holds his gaze, for reasons he can't quite place -- but he lifts his sword anyway and she squeezes her eye shut, arms tightening around the basket. There's no attempt to run, no move to fight; simply a hunch of the shoulders and a tilt of the head as she prepares for the inevitable.

It's her reticence, her quiet acceptance of her fate, that unsettles him the most.

The _swish_ of metal, the flap of wings -- and when she opens her eye, he's already flying away.

 

Afterward, they both wonder why an angel spared a little one-eyed demon.


	2. Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said Mukuro would make an appearance "at some point later on," but my mind translated that into "immediately" -- so here, have a bit of Chromukuro. Although this particular interpretation can be read with romantic implications (and you're free to read it as you wish), my intention for these two isn't romantic or sexual in nature in this fic. To quote Target 335, they have "an absolute bond so deep no one can understand it." It's a relationship of trust and learning, platonic and profoundly intimate.

"Oya? My cute Chrome, what's wrong?"

He catches her with ease, looping an arm around her waist once she steps through the huge, wrought-iron doors. His other hand catches the basket as it falls from her grasp, an eyebrow raising in amused concern when she wraps her arms around him. Chrome takes a deep, shuddering breath, burying her face in his chest. The terror is still there, constricting her insides and swallowing her words, and she clings to her Master like she's a drowning man and he's the buoy.

With a chuckle, he gently strokes the back of her head until her shudders subside. She shifts against him and doesn't pull back when she begins to speak, her voice muffled slightly by his clothing. "There was ... another battle," Chrome murmurs, willing her heart to stop its frantic pounding. "An angel -- saw me." Mukuro's grip around her tightens slightly, his eyes automatically scanning her for any signs of injury.

If one of them laid so much as a single _hand_ on her --

"I didn't run away." Her face finally makes itself visible to him when she looks up, her eye wide.

"What?" Mukuro's eyes narrow. "Chrome, those things are _killers_ \--"

"-- He didn't." Chrome's voice is quiet, but there's an unsettled edge to her tone that belies her fear and confusion. "Mukuro-sama, he didn't kill me. And I -- I don't know why." Her body shivers at the memory. "He could have. He killed ... so many, so quickly." They both know she wouldn't have made a scratch, even if she tried. What was an ant before a giant?

Mukuro pulls her closer. It's not just the terror of being near death that's gnawing at her, he realizes -- it's the fear of the unknown, of not having an answer as to _why_ an angel would do such a thing.

Angels do not have sympathy for their kind.

But he has no answers, as much as they both desire them, so he waits until he's confident she can stand on her own before releasing her. Mukuro hands the basket back to her, patting the top of her head with a gloved hand. "Go put those away," he says, gesturing at the basket's contents.

Chrome glances down at the crude basket and the various pieces of demonic flora she had gathered, having forgotten about them until that moment -- then she nods with a small smile, thankful for the distraction.

 

She walks through the garden behind Mukuro's imposing mansion, leaning down every now and again to plant the wriggling flowers in the ground. It's a welcome way to distance herself from her thoughts and clear her head -- to forget the sound of cold metal and dying breaths, to erase the image of grey eyes and bright wings, to -- "Ah, no!"

Chrome hastily pulls two feuding plants apart, frowning slightly and recieving a bitten finger for her efforts. She allows a few drops of blood to drip from her finger into the soil, pacifying the aggressive flowers, before standing back up and sighing.

She's no longer afraid, but Chrome doesn't think she'll be able to forget her encounter any time soon. With a stretch and a reluctant yawn, she returns inside and heads to the mansion's library to spend the next few hours reading up on _How To Breed Battle-Worthy Bushes_.

 

"Mukuro-sama, are you resting soon?"

"Mm?" The demon turns to see Chrome standing in the doorway to the bedroom. "Ah, yes. Soon. Is there something you needed?"

She shakes her head. "I was ... just wondering." Mukuro chuckles at that, but doesn't press the point further. There's shuffling behind him as she crawls onto the bed and arranges it for herself, and when it's his turn to lie down he can't help but raise an eyebrow.

"A _nest_ , Chrome?" he asks, smiling at the mass of sheets she's bundled up on the bed. She simply looks at him with her single eye before shuffling sideways, exposing a Mukuro-sized space next to her. He laughs. "Well, since you've already gone to all this trouble. Who am I to say no?"

There's a flash of black as her whiplike tail swishes in contentment.

He settles down beside her, placing an arm around her shoulders as she curls up at his side. One of his leathery wings extends to wrap around her small frame, shielding her. Demons are not prone to being gentle creatures, existing in a world where power is everything; to be kind is to be _weak_ , and Chrome --

\-- well, Chrome is the weakest of all.


	3. Proud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too familiar with writing for Hibari, or with writing in this style in general, so any feedback would be much appreciated! And I actually had no idea how to really make this chapter _work_ , which is why this took so long. My apologies.
> 
> I also apologize for the heavy usage of Christian themes (and subsequent mangling of said themes), but apparently my fingers are kind of doing their own thing here.

Angels do not have _pride_.

Powers, in particular, are created as His most loyal warriors, with room for nothing but providing the proper glory and honor to Him -- or so it _should_ be, at least. And yet there Hibari stands, in front of a gathering of stone-faced angels with his back straight and chin raised as he says, "It was not a threat."

A murmur of disbelief ripples through the company. Their orders were to eliminate the demons, the tempters, the ones that led the Humans astray; any deviance from their assigned task ( _existence_ ) is beyond incomprehensible. A few look at him as if he's grown another head or torn off his wings, while a particularly agitated angel steps forward and looks directly at him.

"It is not your place to decide." Hibari's eyes narrow dangerously. "We exist for His will."

His lips press together into a thin line. There's a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of uncertainty ingrained into his being from the tales of Lucifer and the Fall, and he opens his mouth to perhaps apologize and request His grace --

\-- but the moment passes.

"My will is my own."

(And when the angels converge on him, he does not even draw his sword.)

 

There are cold shackles around his wrists and ankles, burning into his skin like fire. _Repent,_ his holders tell him, _repent and be forgiven for your sins._ Hibari merely glares at them, his gaze as sharp as the steel in his eyes. His wings have been clipped and his body restrained, and still he refuses to lower himself -- so he passes the time in a dark silence, left to his own thoughts.

More often than not his mind is blank, in a state of rest and meditation similar to the concept of sleeping; but, occasionally, the image of a violet eye flickers through his consciousness.

He still doesn't know why he left her alive, and the irritation at the lack of knowledge gnaws at him from the inside-out. It could have been because she was weak, or small, or peaceful, or _something_ \-- but none of the reasons he can think of satisfy him, so he continues to discard the train of thought only for it to return again some time later.

Hibari hadn't spared her out of pity or sympathy, that much he knows; nor did he spare her because of some perverse desire to disobey.

Perhaps it had just been ... curiosity.

 

It could have been an eternity later or only a few days, but eventually the door to his prison opens to reveal a rotating, jade-colored wheel. The corners of Hibari's mouth raise in dry amusement.

Pride is the most fatal of sins, the source of all evil -- and he already knows the judgement the Thrones have passed onto him. (Him, the one who has refused His grace time and time again.)

_"Execution."_


	4. Impossible

Two toppled shelves, five broken vases, and eighteen bush-bites later, Mukuro finally stops Chrome from walking into the doorway by taking her by the shoulders and steering her toward a chair. He sits her down, carefully but firmly, and folds his arms across his chest with a neutral expression.

She stares up at him in surprise. "Wh-what is it, Mukuro-sama?"

The demon's eyes flick down to the bandages around her fingers, then up to her face. "Why don't you answer that question for me, my Chrome?" Shock crosses her expression before she averts her gaze. "Hm?" Long, slender fingers reach out and lift her chin.

Chrome does her best to avoid looking into his mismatched eyes, to resist the almost hypnotic desire to tell him _everything_ (even when they're both aware he already knows). But there are no secrets kept between them, no words unspoken that need to be said, so she finally sighs and meets his stare with her own.

"I ... I want to help him."

 

He watches her go with no small amount of displeasure, although he's not _entirely_ surprised. Gossip tends to spread fast through Hell, and the fact that it involves one of Heaven's most despised inhabitants only serves to fuel the metaphorical fire. It's no surprise, then, that it reaches Mukuro's ears -- and, immediately after, Chrome's.

"It seems that strange angel of yours is going to be executed." The statement was casual, offhand, as if he were commenting on the pleasant wails of tortured souls in the morning instead of the erasure of an angel, but Chrome's reaction had been immediate.

She's always been soft, Mukuro thinks, and it's just like her to believe she truly _owes_ him something. (Saving her _savior_.)

How ridiculous.

And so there is no pleasure in his sardonic smile as she turns and waves before hurrying off, nothing but disappointment and vague irritation and (perhaps) the smallest bit of concern. A part of him wonders if he should allow the small demon to so eagerly rush toward her death -- but the greater part that tells him to leave her be, to fight her own battles, is what leads him to simply lean back in his chair, carving designs into the iron armrest with a dark fingernail.

Though the demonic lord would never admit as much aloud, there's the tiniest fragment of pride in him as he watches her leave; pride for an abandoned, broken vessel he repaired and reshaped with his own hands; pride for the now-blooming potential he had found there.

 

He closes his eyes, and waits.


	5. Parachute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay -- I am the absolute worst at writing something and sticking with it. Also, I haven't the slightest idea what I'm doing.
> 
> In case you're wondering how the geography of Heaven and Hell works, the answer is: I don't actually know. There are probably going to be some (a lot) of obvious plot holes, because this was originally just going to be a lot of character meta/etc. as opposed to something that has actual ... well, plot.
> 
> C'est la vie.

An hour after her departure, Chrome finally thinks: _what am I doing?_

Her angel -- _the_ angel, she corrects -- is much more powerful than she is. If he can't get himself out of his predicament, what could she possibly to do help? The demon remembers the ice in his eyes, the danger in his voice, and suddenly she's not so sure anymore. Her feet stop.

Chrome could die the moment she steps into Heaven, which is probably what will happen. Or she could die at the point of _his_ sword if she succeeds in getting him out, which is also very probable; a part of her says he's not likely to be grateful for her interference. Not that she's going to succeed, anyway, but it's worth a shot.

... Well, not _worth_ it, per se. There's no taking back life once it's been lost, at least for someone without Grace. But he _had_ saved her life, and Chrome knows she could never sit comfortably knowing she let someone else die. Even if that someone else was an angel.

Honestly, there's not much else for her to lose other than the obvious; despite living with a Prince, Chrome owns very little. She will miss her Master, of course, and she would like to think he will miss her, but the little demon knows she's just a useless cog in a very large machine. He doesn't need her. Her garden might be a greater cause for concern, though. She hopes Mukuro finds someone to tend to the plants, before they start eating each other. (Or people.)

With those things in order in her mind and her own tiny existence put into perspective, she walks forward with renewed determination.

 

The death of an angel is serious business, if only because it happens so rarely. Angels are created as vessels of His will -- unlike Men, who are able to choose their own path, angels are simply conduits through which He shows His power. Disobedience simply doesn't exist.

It's been eons since the Fall, eons since Michael had led the Heavenly host against the infernal armies, and eons since the last death. Angels only ever fall in battle ... until now, Hibari supposes. He's not too concerned. If anything, the angel is slightly pleased.

He could have been thrown out, like the Morning Star; or he could have been taken and his essence remade anew, which certainly isn't impossible to do. The only reason he can think of for neither of those things is that they're _scared_. There is no guarantee he wouldn't go straight to the Morning Star if thrown out, and no guarantee he wouldn't end up with the same stubborn pride he has now if remade.

It's an indirect acknowledgement of his strength. Were Hibari the type, he likely would have been preening.

But because he's _not_ the type, he simply allows himself a smirk as they bind his wings in chains.

 

Chrome stands before the massive, shimmering gate, her heart pounding relentlessly against her ribcage. She wonders, not for the first time, why she isn't like other demons. Survival is tantamount for her kind. Walking straight into Heaven is like asking to be killed. Anyone else would have turned back long ago -- anyone else wouldn't have started this deluded suicide mission in the first place.

But because she's _not_ anyone else, she takes a deep breath and steps into the light.


End file.
